


Chaotic Contradictions (Reader POV)

by UmbraEmber



Series: Smutty One Shots (Reader POV) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, No Plot/Plotless, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29889318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UmbraEmber/pseuds/UmbraEmber
Summary: “You want to fix it. Brute force adjust. Make yourself better, comfortable, so you can be the woman with her head thrown back in ecstasy, exhausted from the pleasure of it all. It’s not like you haven’t tried before.”A shitty sex club, a single encounter, two lonely individuals with the same kink and the same hang up.(The first in my HP Smutty One Shot Collection)(I’ll be posting the same series but with ships in third person for those who prefer it!)
Relationships: Severus Snape/Reader
Series: Smutty One Shots (Reader POV) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197641
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Chaotic Contradictions (Reader POV)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [divinemistake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinemistake/gifts).



  
“I’ve known people like you,” he says.  
  
That makes one of you, at least, ‘cause you’ve never met anyone like him before. You’ve never even met _him_. At least not officially. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t noticed him sitting in the club before, all black cloak and cold scowl.  
  
It’s not like you seek him out to stare. He’s just not like the usuals. Not like the desperate couples, here to spice up their sex lives or to trap an unwitting bisexual woman in some kind of “triad.” Like the couple you’re currently watching. Or the usual men who come and think they can find some kinky girlfriend to take out of the club setting and fuck forever as an obedient little slut. Fuck that. The thought usually is enough to make you grin at their stupidity. How could they think you could be trapped at all? But you can’t grin now. Not while this man is sitting one sofa away and piercing you with his gaze. He’s not an idiot. Men like him aren’t supposed to be in a place like this. Not clean shaven, older men in expensive robes. They only come if they’re married and there’s no ring on his finger, not even the indent of one removed. It’s not exactly the club with the best reputation and that’s exactly why you like it. Everyone else here is a nobody. Invisible, horny ghosts. People you don’t have to worry about impressing.  
  
“People like me?” You ask, even though you don’t want to. You feel like you have to. An insatiable curiosity has been sparked. You want to know more about this stranger who seems to know so much. You want to know what he thinks of you. And it's edged in the irritation you feel that he would begin by comparing you to anyone else. Reduce you down to your similarity to other women he’s known.

“Perfectionist.” He says it like it’s the total answer. Just that one word. And leans back, crossing his angular arms. His black hair slips in front of his eyes and you want to lean across and tuck it behind his hair. It shines in the low-light. “Is that why?”

“Why what?” You hate that he’s holding the control in the conversation. Dictating the way it flows while you’re left scrambling to catch up to him. You haven’t even had a chance to defend against the perfectionist accusation. But then, you’re not even sure if he meant it like an accusation. There’s no malice in his cold gaze. Just detachment.

He gestures to the couple in the corner, the ghost of a grin forming on his angular face. The couple is nearing the end of their evening, the man on his knees, his face between his partner’s thighs. They’re the kind of people who should be in a shitty club like this. Young, inexperienced, unaware of the much better club on the other side of town. Here with eyes only for each other as some kind of kinky game between the two of them. The kind of people you’d be able to resent. And thus the kind of people who feel safe. The woman has her head thrown back in ecstasy and you wonder if it isn’t exhausting being pleasured that hard.

“ _She’s_ getting eaten out because I’m a perfectionist?” You don’t try to hide the snarkiness that’s seeped its way into your voice. This older man is annoying, you decide. Because of the way he’s introduced himself, by refusing to introduce himself. Because he’s clutching the conversation in his tight, sharp hands seemingly without any effort. And because even though you hate to admit it, he looks at you as though he can see right through you. Perfectionist? It’s not far off.

“It’s why you watch and never participate.”

Something like cold fear spikes down your stomach. “I participate. I get fucked.” You say it like it's a badge of honor. Like he should be impressed at how casually you can spit it out. You’re in a sex club, for fuck’s sake, you scold yourself, even if it is a shitty one. Getting fucked is mostly the whole point.

“But not that.” And again his eyes flicker to the couple and you see arousal drench his face. And that small part of you (okay, large part of you) that’s competitive, feels irritated by how the woman in the corner can get eaten out by one man while arousing the next. You can’t even get eaten out, at all.

“Is there something wrong with not wanting a man to shove his tongue in my cunt?”

“No.”

It’s all he says. And you’re beyond irritated with him now. But luckily he falls silent. He’s watching the couple with a cold intensity. With an almost seriousness. His sharp hand twitches over his robe but he doesn’t pull his cock out. You’re almost a little disappointed that he doesn’t. It feels like he’s seen into the most sacred parts of yourself and he doesn’t even have the decency to let you see his dick. You’re getting a full view of the other man’s cock as it swings between his thighs. He’s finishing up with his partner. Handing her shirt over to her. You’ve been so distracted listening to him that you’ve missed the grand finale. You missed watching her come under her partner’s tongue. They pull their dirty clothes over their sweating bodies and avoid your eyes as they leave. Cowards. You sigh. The thrum of pleasure is still there, the burning warmth, but now it’s mingled with your feelings of frustration and annoyance. He turns back to you.

“But you do want it.”

Your breath catches in your throat and you try to steady yourself. He says it with certainty. Like he’s pointing out you’re wearing a blue shirt or tight shorts. Like he’s telling you his name or age. You _want_ to get eaten out. He doesn’t move closer, to your surprise. Your guard is down, now. He’s fucked you up with such simple observations and any other man might take the opportunity to shove their tongue down your throat. He doesn’t even move. The twitching in his hand having settled as the couple left the room. 

“If I wanted to get eaten out, I would. And what does that have to do with me being a ‘perfectionist,’ anyway?” You feel a little better. You’re the one dictating the flow of conversation now. Bringing it back to his earlier point. If this was another man, he’d be on the offensive already. You’d have wrangled the conversation from his grip and tossed it back, neck snapped.

He’s not any other man. Another ghost of a smile presses across his face. Actually, you note, this one is more like a smirk. 

“You can’t let your guard down, can you? Can’t relinquish control? Can’t be vulnerable?” His voice lingers on every syllable. Says vulnerable like it’s three separate words. Like he doesn’t want to give the word up for you, not easily. It has a devastating effect. The slowness. The intentionality. The heat grows.

“What is this? A therapy session? Who gives a shit the why?”

“I do.” And then, with a more sarcastic tilt to his tone, his lips form around the word. “Ob-vi-ous-ly.” 

“Yeah? ‘Cause you’re a pervert with some kind of oral kink.”

He only shrugs his sharp shoulders, dark eyes remaining fixed on your own.

“If that’s the case,” you continue, heat growing in your face, “you’re talking to the wrong girl.”

“But you’re not a girl. You’re a woman.”

“Obviously,” you mimic, “but if this is just turning into a game of semantics, count me out.” 

“You’re free to walk out of here any time.” He gestures to the open door nestled between the large murky windows in a sweeping motion as though driving his point home.

You stay rooted to your chair. “I was here first.” You know how you sound. Childish. Immature. Petty. Whatever. You don’t care. It’s true. He’s the one that slunk into the room and joined you in watching the couple. “And you’re the pervert.”

He laughs at this. A cool, low laugh that doesn’t reach his dark eyes. “We’re both at this shitty sex club, darling.” Again with dragging his words out. Like he just can’t give them up. Doesn’t want to drop them hard into the stuffy air. Like he wants to pull them slowly from his mouth. To allow them to pour from him like liquid gold. Roll over your thighs like warm water, drench down your back.

“And why are you here anyway?” You ask, the petulant tinge still evident in your voice. “Aren’t you at the age where you should have a nice wife somewhere baking you a shepherd’s pie and ironing your endless supply of black robes?”

“If I had a wife at home, I wouldn’t be here.” He grits those words out. Still slow but they don’t have the gold quality of his other ones. There’s something there. Regret or resentment. Something sharp and cold. “And wouldn’t that be a shame?”

“For you. But you didn’t answer why you’re here.”

“Usually I don’t like the get attached to who I fuck.” It’s the one word he allows to drop like dead weight into the room. The one word he doesn’t pull out slow. Fuck. You want to hear him say it again. “I like it clean. No emotions. No complications. No mess.”

“Usually?”

“Yes. Usually.” He pauses. There isn’t uncertainty there. It’s like he just wants to leave you stewing in suspense. You glare at him and he smiles. “There appears to be an exception. I haven’t fucked you yet and I’m already attached.”

You hate how much those simple sentences turn you on. You ignore the urge to grind into the sofa. “What? Why?”

“I find you curious,” he admits. “Fascinating.”

“I’m not someone for you to study.”

“No?” There’s an unusual playfulness brimming at the surface of his dark eyes. Like he’s laughing at you. Like he doesn’t know how to have fun unless it’s at someone else's expense. “But hopefully you’re someone I can fuck.”

“You did say yet. And I didn’t object.” It’s permission, in a way. A way to put down your barbed comebacks and settle into an agreement. A way to get him to fuck you without conceeding. 

He reaches out a cool hand and sets it softly on your leg. Your eyelids flutter. And then he’s stroking up your thigh, slow and gentle and you need him to get there faster. He reaches your shorts and you’re ready for him to throw your clothes to the floor, ready for him to fuck you sore. His tall, slender body is leaning over you. 

“No oral,” you say with your eyes closed. And his hand retreats. 

Your eyes flash open. “Really?” You snap. “You’re so atttached to your kink you won’t fuck without it?”

“I won’t fuck someone who doesn’t allow themselves to feel pleasure,” he says with a lightness. A kindness. He doesn’t want to offend you. That’s the first time since he started speaking to you, you think. “It wouldn’t matter to me. It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t want it so bad. If you weren’t begging for it.” His fingers tease the hem of your shorts. “Needing it.”

“I don’t need it.” 

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you watching a woman getting eaten out.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“I said I find you fascinating.”

“Okay. I do.” Whether because of his disarming compliment, his sudden sweetness, or because he’s pushed you to the point of communication through endless frustration, you’re not sure. Perhaps a combination of it all. “Is that what you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell the truth.” His hand rises to your shirt and teases along your hips, revealing the soft skin there. “I want you to be honest.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut again as his long fingers travel under your shirt and up to your breast. Your skin prickles and your nipples harden at his sensual, slow movements. “I do want to get eaten out. You’re right, I do. But I just can’t.” 

“Can’t?” He asks as he begins to massage your breast. “Or won’t allow yourself to?”

“I’m just not comfortable with it.”

“And that’s okay,” he murmurs as he leans in closer and leaves kisses along your shoulder. “If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s okay. I just want you to be sure. I want you to be conscious of it. This,” he pauses as though delicate words don’t come easy to him, “hang up of yours. It’s alright if you can own it. If you’re aware of it.” And then he’s kissing into your neck, his silky hair brushing against your cheek, whispering into your ear. “If you’re okay with it. Are you okay with it?”

No, you want to scream. No, you’re not. You want to fix it. Brute force adjust. Make yourself better, comfortable, so you can be the woman with her head thrown back in ecstasy, exhausted from the pleasure of it all. It’s not like you haven’t tried before. But by the time someone’s lips touch your cunt, you push them away. Once you even kicked the poor fucker in the shoulder. 

“Are you?” He asks again, shifting so that he’s almost on top of you, his hands warm on your body. “Or do you want me to suck and lick and fuck your cunt with my mouth?”

He presses his mouth against yours after he asks, as though he wants to prove his prowess, his ability. Kisses you deeply, his hand cupping your face, his other still working luxuriously slowly at your breasts.

“I do,” you gasp, clutching his robes in tight fists. “I do want that. But I can’t. Trust me.” You almost laugh at the absurdity of it. “The minute you get down there, you’d understand.” You moan into his mouth. “It’s not my fault. It’s just my body. It’s just a fucking traitor.”

“You can’t control everything,” he murmurs. “You can’t control how you feel.”

“But I want that, too. I want to be...perfect.”

“You already are. Perfectly imperfect. Chaotic and unexplainable and unpredictable. A perfect contradiction.”

“Is that why you’re fascinated with me?” 

“One of the many reasons.” He strips your shirt over your head, exposing your chest, and his eyes glint with desire as they take you in, all of you. He leans down and kisses each of them in turn. “There are many, many reasons.”

“Want to tell me them?” You grin and he gently bites your nipple in response.

“Now, now,” he warns. “I’ve already been too kind.” 

And then he’s sucking on it and you’re arching your back into his touch. 

“Don’t stop,” you groan. 

His hand unbuttons your shorts and snakes inside, pressing against your damp knickers, slipping past them. His slender fingers press against your lips and begin to rub in hard circles. 

“I want to taste you. I need to.”

You nod. You don’t know why. Maybe because you’ve warned him and he didn’t run out shaking his head, because he hasn’t treated you like you’re insane, like you’re broken. Because his hands are down your shorts and you’re already feeling weak. Already ready to crumble under him. 

“Say it, you have to say it. You have to want it.”

“I do. I want it. I want you to taste me. Suck and lick and all that shit you said earlier. I want you to do that to me as I come around you.” 

You don’t say it but you know it’s not going to happen. You want it but it’s impossible. You won’t be able to allow it. He slips the shorts down over your hips and thighs. His hands are gentle on your skin, caressing, as he pulls them down your calves. Your knickers follow and you watch with fascination as they disappear into his robes. 

“Don’t want to ask in case I want those back?” You’re not sure if you should’ve commented at all. Or if you should’ve just let the wetness gather between your thighs at the idea of him wanting to keep part of this moment forever. 

“Collateral,” he explains, his lips upturned. “You’ll have to see me again if you want them back. And they are a nice pair so I’m sure you will.” 

“Or you can just keep them,” you say, breathless, heavy with need. “I honestly don’t give a fuck right now. Just touch me.”

He obeys, pressing feather-light kisses against your knee, your calf. His tongue slips out and he tastes the sweat that’s running down your skin. 

“I’m going to kiss your cunt,” he says. It’s almost a demand, almost a request. Almost but not quite. There’s still space there for you to refuse. 

You nod, again. He continues kissing along your leg, up your thigh, at your hips. He looks up at you, his eyes dark, his lips wet. And then he pries your legs open with his strong, cold hands. His eyes stay on yours as he leans down and those wet lips touch against you. You buck up, your knees fight to close, you squeeze your eyes shut.

“I can’t—” you cry. Your hands are fists, your nails leaving half-moon sickles in your palms. “I just can’t.”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “Let go. You don’t need to be in control. Let me.” 

And somehow it helps. Somehow it feels less like losing control when you pass it over to him. There’s a trust there. You know he can handle the power you’re giving him. And it’s just a kiss. Just a soft, sweet kiss against your cunt. He follows it with another, and another. And then it’s as though he’s making out with you. His tongue slipping out and grazing your lips as his own work against your flesh. Just kisses, you think. He’s just kissing you. He groans and you buck your hips up again at the sound. His clean shaven chin presses against your entrance as he leaves a final deep kiss and pulls back. 

“You taste so good,” he says. He wipes across his lips with a bony knuckle. Even that movement looks graceful when he does it and you want to kiss him messy, ruin his straight black hair, fuck him until he’s shaking and there’s no grace left. “You taste so fucking good.” 

You grab his wrist and pull that finger close to your lips. You smile before you pop it into your mouth, suck it down all the way to the knuckle. Hollow out your cheeks. Taste yourself on him. His eyes close and pleasure rips across his face. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t.” 

“I want to taste myself,” you beg, dropping his wrist to grab hold of his chin and pull him up, “let me taste myself on you.” 

You smell the sweetness before you make contact. Your taste is all over his lips, his chin, his cheeks. And now it really is just all kissing as he leans back over you. He’s still robed and you realize how unfair it is as you lie beneath him naked and his hand finds your clit again. You still haven’t seen his damned cock. 

“Undress,” you demand. 

“Will that help you come?” He asks with an almost cheeky lightness. “Don’t you want me to keep doing this?” And then he makes a delicious movement with his fingers against your wet clit.

“Fucking— undress,” you manage to get out in between shaking breaths. “Fuck. Don’t test me.”

He obeys and strips his robe off. He’s wearing a tight black shirt and black trousers underneath. And he’s hard. His length is tight against the fabric of his trousers. You can’t help your smile. Not bad. He smiles sharply and pulls his shirt over his narrow shoulders. Underneath, his torso is as slender as his hands. Short black hair curls down to his trousers, dusts his chest. Veins race up his forearms and disappear into surprisingly round muscles. 

“So? Do you approve?”

You can only nod. Those long fingers you’re now familiar with work his belt but there’s a tremor to them. His eyes connect with yours and you can see something there. A vulnerability. 

“Come here,” you whisper. He moves closer, his knees knocking against your own. And then you’re unzipping his trousers and taking a firm hold to pull them over his narrow hips. He can’t help but adjust himself as you expose his long, hard length. “Impressive.” There’s a highness to your voice. A reverence that even you can hear. 

“No,” he says, stopping your hand as it wraps around him. “I’m not finished with you, yet.” 

He kneels back at your feet and begins the slow process again of leaving kisses on your calves, your knees, your thighs. You grab the back of his head, threading silken black hair through your fingers, and push him hard against your cunt. You need more. You think you’re ready. 

“Suck my clit, lover boy.” 

Again, he obeys. He obeys over and over again. You remember his words. He’s going to suck and lick and fuck you with his mouth. With expert precision, a musician’s rhythm, a potion master’s obsession, he does. His tongue circles your clit. He sucks it lightly. His thumbs are rubbing in circles against your thighs. You thought you were ready. You can feel it building. That familiar pressure. A pressure usually under your command. It’s getting out of hand. Your body is making movements you’re not even aware of. Your hands have found his hair and you don’t remember how or when. You can hear yourself moaning. You’re not ready. 

“Stop.”

He does. Immediately. Your lips haven’t finished with the word before he’s pulling back to rest his chin on your knee. His severe face stares up at you. It’s an almost absurd pose. Something more fitting for someone with soft, large, pleading features. There’s nothing pleading in his look. Even now, he’s in control. Stern and steady. 

“Get up,” you command. 

And he rises, gracefully, and cups your chin. You tilt up to meet his kiss and taste yourself on his lips, again. He’s covered in you. His wet face is impassive. His gaze straight and unwavering. You know your new goal. You want him to shatter. To lose every last shard of control. And with clarity you understand. That’s exactly what he wants from you too. 

You slip your hands over his hips and around to his firm, smooth ass. You squeeze the way he’s been massaging your breasts. He buckles forward and drops your chin.

“What are you doing?”

“I won’t fuck someone who doesn’t allow themselves to feel pleasure,” you say, pleased with yourself for remembering his words. “Now let me taste _you_ for a change.”

You press your lips tight against your teeth and wet them. There’s that nervousness to his eyes again. A hesitation. A fear. You slide your hands over his hips and then grab his length. He pulls back slightly. 

“Hypocrite,” you mutter against the tip of his cock before you press a soft kiss to it. He groans immediately, his hands coming up to grip at your hair. “Now, I want you to say it. Say you want me to suck you.”

“I want it,” he groans, gripping your hair harder, “I need it. Suck me.”

You mimic his actions. Millions of small, sweet kisses against his head, down his shaft, tongue sneaking out to taste him, moans catching in the back of your throat. You open and pull him into you. Suck hard. Bob your head up and down. Release him with a pop and return to the millions of gentle kisses. You’re about to slip him back in when he pulls your hair and tilts your head up to look at his face. It’s twisting. Contorting in pleasure. A spike of victory runs through you. 

“Stop,” he grinds out. 

And you do. Immediately. Just as he had. 

“I’ll come all over your pretty face if you carry on,” he says as a way of explanation, and then a bony hand is on your shoulder, pushes you down against the back of the sofa, the other hand at your thigh, pushing your legs apart, and then he’s lining up at your entrance. 

“I’m going to fuck you, now,” he says. Again a mixture of a command and a declaration. Room for disagreement. He waits there, the head of his cock brushing against your wet lips. Impossible restraint. A twitch in his neck. And you know he’d wait there forever, wait for you to give him permission. 

Your grab hold of his ass again and pull him into you. He slides in easily. Smooth. Fills you up. It feels right. You’re sensitive and everything is burning heat and it feels right. 

“Fuck,” he groans, his forehead hitting against yours. Sweat already slipping down his temples. “You feel better than I could’ve—”

You don’t feel in control anymore. But then, neither is he. The two of you are both falling into each other. Relinquishing control, allowing your body to react imperfectly. Allowing it to react at all. Pressing against him as he slides in and out. Torturously slow. 

“Fuck me hard. Harder.”

“Patience. Be patient.” 

How his words still sound like liquid gold even as he’s breathless, even as he’s thrusting his entire length into you, you have no idea. You could fall into a battle with him. Demand him to speed up and to pound you hard, wrap your legs around his waist and set the speed. Take over as he begs to extend the moment, as he tries to savor every thrust. But you’re past that now. You don’t need to control this. You don’t need it to be perfect. It kind of already is. Perfectly imperfect. Chaotic and unexplainable and unpredictable. A perfect contradiction. Hard and soft. A stranger who knows you better than anyone else. A fuck that’s slow and fast. A sloppy mess, a beautiful delight. Awkward and uncoordinated and purposeful and graceful. He’s groaning into your ear and you’re not sure where his breath ends and yours begin. His hand is back at your chest, squeezing in time with his thrusts. 

You’re going to come. You are. It isn’t even a question of allowing it to happen anymore. It’s an inevitability. The fall after the leap. You’re crashing down, coming around him. Pulsing. Writhing. Practically vibrating. And he’s thrusting harder and faster against it. Pounding into you. Past the point of self-control. Pushed past all his careful and graceful movements. He’s unrestrained, neck tight and muscles flexed. 

“How?” He asks in disbelief. “How do you feel so good?” 

And then he empties into you with a cry. 

There’s an intimacy to this that you don’t normally find at the club. A closeness as his head drops to your chest and you cradle him there. He rests for a moment, catching his breath, his cock twitching inside you, softening. You stroke his silk hair behind his ear as your breath returns to you. 

“I’m not done.” He lifts his head. There’s a challenge to his eyes. “I had a mission tonight. And I intend to complete it.”

“You don’t have to,” you protest weakly. 

“I want to. It’s all I’ve wanted since I first saw you. Since I saw you with your hand down those tiny shorts, since I saw the way your face looks when you come.” He brushes your red cheek. “That beautiful flush. I needed it. To own it. Control it. Summon it. I’m going to make you come. The way you need it.”

He drops to the floor on his knees. 

“I have come,” you say, as though he’s unaware. “I did.”

“But not like this.”

You’re more sensitive now you’ve already come. A throbbing that wasn’t there before. He licks his own cum from between your lips. Doesn’t seem to mind the way it drips out of you. Presses his tongue against your clit. And you let him. You accept how much you like it. Allow it. Your body is all reaction, now. You’re unaware of your hands gripping his shoulders, unaware of the way your toes curl, the way you’re chanting fuck over and over and banging your head against the back of the sofa. And when you come, when you come hard against his lips, against his tongue, sweat dripping down your calves, down your back, when you shatter into him and around him, when you come entirely undone, you feel only satisfied. 

It’s almost gentle, like his touch. The same warm wash over your back and thighs as his golden voice. Sweet. Soft. Part of that contradiction. It’s intense in its softness. Hard in its sweetness. You’re shaking silently. Thighs clenched. He presses his lips harder, sucks and slips his tongue between your lips. Licks up and down you and then twirls his tongue around your clit. Deliciously. Fast. Hard. The way you demanded. And you come again. And this time there’s nothing soft about it. This time it’s all electricity. Almost painful. No, it is painful. It hurts to come again under him and you like how it hurts. You like how your cunt throbs and pulses and squeezes. 

“How?” You ask as you fall back against the sofa. ‘How do you—” You can’t finish the question. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore as a hazy post-bliss feeling descends over your entire, spent body. 

He lifts himself and rolls next to you, his hand trailing along your chest and stomach. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “You are perfect.”

And you know exactly what he means. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there it is! I hope you all enjoyed. 
> 
> I have a list of characters I’m going to be doing one shots for. Lupin is up next and half-written already. Drop me a line if you have any requests or ideas! I’m more than open to suggestions and feedback!
> 
> I’ve also decided to post the series as third person pov for those who prefer it to reader! Whichever your preference, they’ll be organized into series for you to find!


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